Unaccounted For
by syndomatic
Summary: He only wished that everyone else were as fortunate as him. — James
1. thomas & bertie

**a/n: **pre-_Bertie's Chase_.

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Bertie is a little surprised when Thomas greets him in the morning, his whistle sounding in unison with a friendly hello. He spares a look and a smile as he waits for his passengers to arrive; he has plenty of time to spare, he thinks, and decides to bother.

"What are you doing here," he asks halfheartedly, absently pinpointing the crowd of people dotting the station. There's more and more of them, these days, on the platform instead of the bus stop. "Lazing about again, are you?" It's the middle of springtime. The air is fresh and the weather is lovely and he feels unpleasant. He wishes the day wasn't so slow.

He could always use a change of pace. Sodor's nice and all, but he'd be lying if he said it was an interesting place (for vehicles, of course. He'd heard of stories from passing engines, plenty of them. He didn't know whether to feel jealousy or pity).

"You wish," replies the tank engine, with a laugh that sounds chipper as it is disappointed. It's always like that with Thomas, and for a moment, Bertie wonders how he does it. If he could do it too. He probably could, if he tries hard enough. "My driver's not in today," he explains, "down with the flu, or so I've heard. Of all the times to fall ill! I'd have to make up for lost time when he comes back."

"It's certainly a bother," he says. The sky is clear today, clearer than it was the day they raced. He was disappointed when his driver told him, matter-of-factly, that wings and buses don't mix well. But Thomas is here, alone, driver-less and with nothing to do, and Bertie would tease him if he didn't feel so sorry for him. "Say, what are all those people doing there? They seem to be disoriented. Are they waiting for the next train to arrive?"

Thomas sighs. "No, they're my passengers. Now they've to find another way to get to Wellsworth. We're running late already; Edward will get on my case after this, probably, the poor—"

"I could take them for you," Bertie offers, triumphant. He doesn't feel quite so sorry anymore.

"Would you?"

"Of course. I'll just have a word with my driver."

"Thanks, Bertie," he says, "I owe you one."

"Don't mention it," Bertie replies, even as he smiles all the way to the station.


	2. mavis & boco

**a/n: **set during day of the diesels.

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They stopped at the same signal. Mavis glanced from the corner of her eye. She greeted the other diesel the same way she greeted everyone else—a gleaming smile and a chipper "good morning!"—at the same time wondering if she should feel sorry for not remembering his name. She didn't expect him to remember hers, not really, because they rarely met and when they did meet they rarely talked. He spent time shunting trucks at Edward's branchline while she pulled a century's worth of slate in the quarry. It wasn't her fault that they were both preoccupied, and it wasn't his fault either. She felt guilty regardless.

"Good morning," he replied, polite but not entirely so. Their respective trucks were assembled long and straight behind them, overflowing and rattling and giggling with glee. It exhausted her just looking at it.

Mavis tried to recall Bill and Ben's story about him—_Cosmopolitan Victoria, oh what was it again?_—before settling to change the subject instead. There were only two of them and she was sick of their giggling. She counted down the time left before she could push them into their proper places—two and three times over for every damn laugh they make.

"It's worrying, isn't it?" she began. "Diesel 10, I mean. He's the worst sometimes. I mean, sure, he's good at what he does, but—"

"Anyway," he interrupted, smile unfaltering. Mavis felt embarassed. "What was it you were worrying about?"

"Oh, yes." She recovered. "Diesel 10. He invited Percy to the Dieselworks the other day." She huffed, worriedly, "heard he stayed all night there. The poor thing. I don't know what they're planning, all of a sudden being friendly with him like that."

"Indeed," he said. "Even Percy would know better than to do that."

"He's trying to pull something, I think."

"As if it wasn't already obvious!"

"I know," sighed Mavis. "And Salty knows too. Even Daisy—daft of an engine she is—does as well."

"Well then," he said flatly, as if he had lost interest all of a sudden. The trucks had gone silent. "What do you propose we do about it?"

Mavis pondered. The signal was about to turn green any moment now. "They're hard to get along with, Diesel 10 and his gang. And Percy, I don't think talking him out of it is a good idea."

"So there's nothing we can do?"

"That's not what I mean, really, it's just that, we have—you know—actual _work_ to do. And, well—"

"It's more trouble than it's worth," finished the other diesel. "It's not our place, is that what you're trying to say?"

Mavis wondered if she should feel hurt. She didn't, she decided, because he spoke the truth. She asked for his name just as the light turned green. His tracks headed for the yard. Hers went straight to the docks.

Mavis watched as he went, and as her driver persuaded her to go, she reminded herself that there was a lot of work to be done today. Percy was not one of them.


	3. diesel

**a/n: **set in Calling All Engines.

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He watched The Fat— _sorry_, Sir Topham Hatt, arrive at the quarry, the same man he always was, full of misplaced importance and a voice that shook and a look that dripped of patronization as he walked. Diesel saw the sun from the corner of his eye. It was early, much too early for him to put up with what he knew was coming, but the man had refused to give a damn since the incident with the china clay, perhaps even earlier, and Diesel thinks it's only fair to do the same to him as well. He didn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he had made him angry or sad or upset.

He hid his irritation behind an oily smile, trying not to wonder whether he noticed or not, really, he probably saw right through it like the wise figure he was, or ought to be, he couldn't tell. He was only a few steps away from his shed, now, and Diesel counted backwards as he came closer.

The quarry was silent, as it usually was for the while before the workers came and the machines were turned on and most importantly before Mavis woke up. Mavis, despite the illogical amount of needless work she insisted on doing, was an early riser who made a habit of bothering everybody—and by everybody he meant himself—around her, preferrably in the wee hours of the morning, and most especially on the mornings in which he woke up with a splitting ache somewhere inside him, because the damn trucks wouldn't stop it with the noise, the guffaws and songs and jokes and he was the butt of it all. But Mavis had slept on the other side of the quarry last night, curse her, and no matter how much Diesel prayed for her cue to come, the quarry was silent.

Sir Topham Hatt cleared his throat. "Diesel," he spoke. His voice lacked the casual tone he reserved for those who—he thought—deserved it.

"Sir," he replied. His smile was unfaltering.

"Several loads of trucks will arrive today this afternoon," he said. "You are to collect them from the yard and take them to Tidmouth. I've told Thomas to shunt the first load for you so you do not have to worry about doing it yourself. This is a very important task I am entrusting you." A pause. "Is that clear enough, Diesel?"

"Yes, Sir." Told to rely on a useless little blue pig. Lovely, he thought.

He nodded, setting off. "Good."

"Wait, Sir," he called. "Just one more thing."

"Yes, Diesel?"

"What is it for? The trucks, I mean."

Sir Topham Hatt smiled. Diesel felt ill. "I have plans to renovate Tidmouth sheds."

Ah. So that was it. "Of course, Sir." He should've known better.

He left. Diesel was alone, and the sun was rising higher, and he couldn't shake off the feeling that he's been cheated somehow, that this was part of the plan, _his_ plan, even as the sun sunk and he was at the yard, waiting patiently as the shunters coupled him to the trucks.

The fruits jiggled and shook inside the trucks. He made his way to Tidmouth without saying a word.


	4. percy & henry

**a/n: **set in Calling All Engines.

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"Are you afraid of storms, Henry?" Percy asked out of the blue, his meek voice mangled and twisted and echoing within the metal walls. The comfortable tranquility inside the smelter's yard was momentarily broken, but beyond the rusted doors was anything but peaceful; all menacing clouds and harsh winds and raindrops hitting the ground like bullets, everything falling apart around them like a toppled house of cards.

Henry spared a glance at the smaller engine. Percy's face was white with fear, mouth bent into a worried frown. So was his own. He looked away. The haphazard piles of iron looked back, offering no form of consolation.

"Yes," he replied, then, trembling, straining a smile for the sake of his companion. The younger engine's expression softened at the gesture, knowing full well of what it truly meant. He knew because it was late, they were both _tired_ and no amount of small talk will help ease the chaos surrounding them and they both understood that well—

"Me too," Percy said, quietly. "I hate them."

Henry chuckled, rather nervously. "I can see that."

—but that didn't stop them from trying.


	5. james

**a/n: **set in Calling All Engines.

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James considered himself lucky.

Sure, the coaling plant was unspeakably dirty, and he can already feel his paintwork being ruined, but he told himself there were—apparently—more important things to mull about for the moment (but really, at this point he'd tell himself anything to take his mind off the rain and coal dust gathering all over his frame).

Anyway: he was lucky. He was certain he was—compared to his fellow peers and colleagues at least—because he wasn't Gordon, who was pretentious to the very end and only wanted the very best (and who was he to argue otherwise?); because he wasn't Edward, who was slow and selfless and all but waited until all the remaining spots were taken (kindness gets you nowhere, he really should have known better); because he was neither Henry nor Percy, who stuck together for the sole reason that they were cowards (he declined the offer, definitely _not_ because the smelter's yard gave him the chills); because he wasn't Thomas, whose mind was undeniably plagued with something as he went to stay in Knapford's only remaining shed (he let him pass as an act of mercy); and most definitely, because he wasn't Toby, whose feeble excuse of a shed would most likely be destroyed in the present storm (regardless of how cozy it looked like).

Yes, he thought, wheels hanging onto the rails as though his life depended on it. The storm raged.

He only wished that everyone else were as fortunate as him.


End file.
